Chapter 11: Reunion
The night sky stretched endlessly above them, a deep velvet expanse littered with stars. The cool evening breeze carried the faint scent of freshly cut grass and the distant aroma of burning charcoal from some unseen worker's late-night cigarette. The Suzuki multicab rumbled to a stop in front of a massive wrought iron gate, its metal bars tall and sturdy, casting long shadows under the yellow glow of the overhead lamps.
Jack stirred first, blinking away sleep before nudging Anita and Richard awake. "We're here," he murmured, his voice groggy.
Richard rubbed his eyes, his gaze adjusting to the grand sight before him. Beyond the gate, past a winding path, stood a mansion perched atop a small hill. Its silhouette loomed against the moonlit sky, a structure of old-world charm mixed with modern touches. Warm lights glowed from its many windows, while the outline of a wraparound balcony hinted at the wealth of the family that lived within.
Anita stretched, looking out with a small smile. "For a long time, the house hasn't changed," she said softly. "Except for the gate—it used to be farther in. Now it's right by the road."
Richard took in the view, noting the sheer size of the property. Lined up neatly beyond the entrance were several eight-wheeler trucks and frozen panel trucks, their massive forms resting in stillness like sleeping beasts. The yard, illuminated by industrial floodlights, revealed a network of dirt roads leading to different parts of the estate.
Ronnie stepped out first, adjusting his cap before approaching the guardhouse. He exchanged a few words with the sentry, who nodded and pressed a button, triggering the mechanical hum of the gate sliding open.
"Alright, let's go," Ronnie said, waving them through.
Jack and Anita grabbed their bags, stepping out of the vehicle. Richard followed suit, slinging his backpack over one shoulder as his feet met the packed dirt. The air smelled richer here—earthy, with a faint whiff of the sea carried from some unseen shore.
They walked up the sloping pathway, their steps crunching softly against the gravel. As they moved, Richard's eyes wandered over the scene around him.
To the side, near a long, low-slung dormitory-style building, a group of workers sat in clusters. Some were sprawled on makeshift benches, their heads tilted back in exhausted sleep. Others smoked near the walls, the tips of their cigarettes glowing like tiny fireflies in the dark. Their clothes—plain, practical, and worn from labor—marked them as the backbone of whatever operation ran here.
As they passed, a few of the men looked up and recognized Ronnie.